


Blood on the Walls

by Akiko_Natsuko



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Hidden Injuries, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death, Promises, Secrets, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko
Summary: “Who goes there?!” The question is accompanied by a flare of light, and the cocking of a gun. Not that he’s surprised as they’re all on edge at the moment, and he knows that he should be glad they remembered to ask first, not shoot, but he still flinches back, tugging his hat down to cover his face.“It’s me.” It hurts to speak, in more than one place, and he bites back a noise of pain. He doesn’t want them all fussing over him, not when they’ve got more than enough concerns already, and Sean’s loss is still a fresh wound for all that they rarely mention it.In which Arthur tries to keep the gang from worrying about him, and ends up doing the opposite.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord [The Unholy Trinity](https://discord.gg/vxTVpefYyB).

It’s long past dark when Arthur spots the lights of Shady Belle amongst the trees, between Bane’s ears as the horse lifts its head and whinnies at the prospect of rest and sleep. The stallion is exhausted, sides lathered with white and head down, willingly following Arthur’s gentle guiding onto the easier path into camp when he usually would have fidgeted just to be awkward. It’s a small relief, as Arthur knew he wouldn’t be able to fight the contrary stallion right now, his own head slumped, one arm wrapped around his midriff.

“Who goes there?!” The question is accompanied by a flare of light, and the cocking of a gun. Not that he’s surprised as they’re all on edge at the moment, and he knows that he should be glad they remembered to ask first, not shoot, but he still flinches back, tugging his hat down to cover his face.

“It’s me.” It hurts to speak, in more than one place, and he bites back a noise of pain. He doesn’t want them all fussing over him, not when they’ve got more than enough concerns already, and Sean’s loss is still a fresh wound for all that they rarely mention it.

“Arthur…” It’s Lenny he realises belatedly, mind growing sluggish now that the danger is mainly passed, and the prospect of rest is close. Still, he can’t miss the relief in that single word, as though his homecoming was enough to make a difference to the strange mood that sits over the camp. “We were starting to worry.” Too honest by far this kid, someday it might get him killed, but for now, it pulls a pained smile to Arthur’s face.

“Got caught up with some jobs,” he replies, and it’s not a lie. Seems every man and his dog are willing to pay an errand boy these days, it’s a far cry from the life they’d lived, but it brings in the money and builds goodwill, which considering their situation is nothing to sniff at. “Brought down a couple of deer as well, and then ran into some O’Driscolls…” He makes sure his face his hidden as speaks. He won’t hide the encounter, they all need to be careful, and he resolves to have a word with Kieran and Sadie in the morning, two very different warnings he thinks with amusement.

“Down here?”

“Yeah,” Arthur shifts in the saddle, feeling himself beginning to slip. He has no intention of falling on his ass in front of the kid, tightening his knees, and shushing Bane as he tosses his head. “Looked to be just passing by before they caught sight of me, I led them on a merry chase as far away from here as I could. No chance of the bastards following me back here, that’s for sure.” He doesn’t tell Lenny how they’d caught him unawares while he’d been skinning the second deer, and how the ‘merry chase’ had started with a beating, and him on the wrong side of it, the kid looks anxious enough at the idea of O’Driscolls down here.

“I’ll keep my eyes open all the same,” Lenny promises and praying that he’s not about to regret it Arthur leans out just enough to pat him on the shoulder. It hurts, pain radiating down his side and across his chest, almost enough to draw a strangled cry from his lips, but it's not the first time he’s masked an injury, and he swallows it back before leaning back.

“Just let whoever takes over from you know.” His voice comes out more or less even, and he hopes that Lenny mistakes the less for exhaustion, letting his shoulders slump a little. “I’m going to drop stuff off at Pearson’s wagon, and call it a night…turned out to be a hell of a day.”

“Get some rest Arthur,” Lenny is smiling, more at ease. The promise of food, and having Arthur in camp, making him relax and Arthur wants to scold him for it, but he lacks the energy. Instead, he nods and guides Bane around him, eyes on the hitching posts, when he hears a startled noise and tilts his head to find the younger man staring at his hands…or rather the blood on them. His side and face burn, but he holds himself steady. “Arthur?”

“Didn’t get chance to clean up after skinning the deer…” It’s an easy lie, a believable one, and yet as he moves away, he can feel Lenny watching him.

He doesn’t look back.

Dismounting about kills him, and it’s a miracle that his knees don’t buckle beneath him. A miracle, and far too close, and he has to grab the saddle to stop himself from falling, Bane snorting and pawing at the ground in protest, but taking mercy on him and behaving for once. “Good boy,” Arthur mutters, once he trusts himself not to throw up or pass out, patting him, before tying him up within reach of food and water. “I’ll give you a proper groom and rest tomorrow,” he promises, ignoring the pain in his side that whispers and murmurs that he won’t be doing much of anything tomorrow. Instead, he pats the stallion again, slips him a sugar cube – and gives another one to Taima who immediately spots the treat and presses close.

It’s stubbornness more than anything that lets him pull the skins, and meat from Bane’s back, before staggering across to Pearson’s wagon. As he does, the sounds of the camp wash over him. The quiet snorting and whinnies of horses at rest, Bane settling in with the others. Quiet, and less quiet snoring from the various tents and he winces as he spots Bill draped over a log beside the fire, knowing that the older man is going to regret that in the morning, but with no intention of disturbing him. The wagon is in near darkness, the lantern burned down low, but Arthur knows the path by heart now, and drops his offerings on the table, pulling a cloth sack up over the meat to cover it until the morning. It’s not much – he’ll need to go out again soon or try and take a couple more jobs so they can afford to splurge on some proper food, but that’s a worry for when he’s patched himself up and had a good night’s sleep.

Sleep.

It sounds more beautiful than the picture of Tahiti that Dutch is desperately trying to pain in their heads at the moment, and pressing his arm against his side, he heads for the house and the prospect of rest. He’s stumbling a little by now, legs unsteady, but he tries to be as quiet as he can as he slips inside the house and heads upstairs, wishing for the first time that he slept on the ground floor. The stairs are a particular torture, and his breathing his ragged by the time he gets to the top landing, dark spots dancing across his vision, or maybe he’s started bleeding again… both are bad, and he has to pause to lean against the wall for a moment. Closing his eyes as he listens to the soft breathing from the other room, a quick peek through the holes in the wall showing Abigail curled around Jack – still refusing to let the boy out of her sight, not that he can blame her. More pleasing is the sight of John sprawled out on a bedroll near the door, a sleeping guardian – Arthur will need to work on that – but a guardian none the less, and he smiles through the pain.

At least something good had come from all this.

He uses the warmth of that thought to get himself moving again, doesn’t want them to find him bloody and slumped against their bedroom wall in the morning. Reaches his own bedroom door and all but falls through it, strength failing him now, and he all but faceplants on the floor, and this time he can’t stop the strangled noise he makes. He tries to listen, hoping he hasn’t disturbed anyone, but there’s a roaring in his ears now, everything a little fuzzy. Someone could be stood right over him, and he wouldn’t have a clue.

He loses time then, but he has no idea how much, the seconds and minutes trickling away in ragged breaths, and blood onto the floor. If he hadn’t started bleeding again before, he certainly has now, feeling it collect beneath him, seeping and managing to press a trembling hand to the deep wound in his side. Tasting copper on his tongue, as he stirs, moving so he’s not pressing against the gash down his face.

_Work him over boys…_

The words harsh and mocking, a throwback to his time in Colm’s ‘care’ echo, and he growls low in his throat, more pain than anger, but it’s enough to get his head up. Defiance and stubbornness, forcing him to his knees, one hand resting on the ground to support him while the other remains pressed on the wound, vision blurry as he eyes the bed on the far side of the room. So close, and yet it might as well be as far away as Blackwater right then, doesn’t mean he’s not going to try though.

The first attempt ends with him facedown again.

The second time, he makes it halfway to his feet before crashing back to his knees, and it hurts…the world disappearing for a long moment.

The third time, he bites through his bottom lip, adding blood to his chin before making it up on both feet, and swaying violently.

The world is a blur of colour and shadow, the features of his room reduced to vague shapes that his muddle mind can’t quite make sense of. The bed calls to him though, like a siren song, and he stumbles forward, shedding his hat, coat and satchel as he goes, lacking the energy to do anything more. It’s a surprise when his legs bump into the bed, the metal frame rattling, and then he’s falling. It doesn’t hurt as much this time, softened by the blankets and thin mattress. Still, it burns, drawing a ragged noise from him, and he’s vaguely aware that he’s only half on it, but he doesn’t have anything left in him, eyes already closing. In the back of his mind, an alarm sounds, knowing that he needs to at least wrap something around his side, but the thought is gone as quickly as it forms, like a cloud on a windy day, and Arthur is gone with it.


	2. Chapter 2

Kieran is always one of the first awake in the camp, and not just because it’s impossible to hide from the sun peeking over the horizon when you sleep out in the open. It’s also the best way to avoid having water dumped over your head, or a boot in your side to get your ‘lazy ass up’. Although such treatment has lessened in recent days, collective survival against a threat other than the O’Driscolls finally drawing attention away from him. Still, he’s not about to count his chickens just yet, and so he was up and about, scarfing down a bread chunk and hoping that the stew will be ready a little earlier today, before heading for the horses.

That has been one of the good points of this gang – they care for their horses, and they don’t seem to mind him spending most of his time around their mounts. If Colm had viewed his men - especially those like him – as expendable, then he had considered the horses as even more so, and one of Kieran’s first beatings in the gang had come when he’d tried to speak up about that treatment. Here his concerns, when he’d finally dared to raise them with Arthur had been met with a scowl, and then a surprising promise to look out for the burdock that he needed to try and keep them healthy. Even more surprisingly barely a day later the older man had handed him a satchel full of the herb. He’d also found a couple more bundles by his bedroll since they’d moved.

Speaking of…

He blinks at seeing Bane amongst the other horses, as more often than not these days Arthur is away from camp hunting, taking jobs and trying to keep them afloat and when he is here, it’s passing through. With thoughts of the burdock root on his mind, he decides to start with the stallion, smiling as Branwen huffs at him as he passes her with little more than a pat and a promise to get to her soon. He greets the other horses as he passes, drinking in the soft whickers and snorts of contented horses at rest, notes which ones need a good grooming.

Bane sees him coming and stamps his foot, but Kieran doesn’t hesitate, knowing that the stallion is uppity with everyone including Arthur, and slipping his hand into his pocket for his secret weapon. The appearance of a sugar cube in his hand, sees the stomping stop, and Bane’s ears prick forward with interest. “See, there’s no need for that is there,” he murmurs, letting the horse take the treat and reaching up to pat him. “And no threats of gelding tongues…” he adds under his breath, shuddering at the memory, before turning his attention back to the stallion and frowning. Arthur has always doted on the horse, and it's rare that Kieran’s needed to do more than make sure there’s hay and water nearby, so it’s strange to see the dappled-black hide thick with dirt, and lines where he’d clearly sweated as though pushed to his limits. “What have you been up to?” He asks, working his way back, hands gentle on Bane’s neck as he checks for any damage under the dirt.

It’s when he comes to the saddle though that he pauses because as much as he tries to avoid it, there is no mistaking the blood that coats the leather, trembling fingers tracing the mark that’s dried onto it. As though someone had sat there, with blood pooling under them…

****

There’s blood on the walls.

That’s nothing new, the previous inhabitants had left their mark on the place even before Arthur and John had come to chase out the last of the Raiders, an indelible mark on wooden floors and ruined walls. But this is new, almost dry, but too bright in the early morning sunrise creeping through the windows and Abigail’s hand trembles as she reaches for it, fingers brushing through a mark that looks a little too much like a handprint on the wall of their bedroom. There’s red on her fingertips when she pulls them back.

“John!” The cry slips out before she can stop it, all thoughts of leaving him and Jack to rest a little longer fading as fear claws at her. _What happened?_ Had someone found them? Had someone snuck inside the house while they slept, and…what? Because the house is peaceful around them, although she can hear movement and a groan of protest in response to her voice, but if someone had got inside, wouldn’t they know? Wouldn’t there be more blood… she’s turning, searching, when John appears in the bedroom doorway, bleary-eyed and grumpy with it, his gun gripped in one white-knuckled hand.

“Abigail, what the hell…?” He trailed off. Half asleep, he might be, but he’s on high alert after what happened with Jack and his eyes dart to the mark on the wall where her hand still rests. “Is that blood?” She nods still searching for a trail, for an answer to what could have happened, a muted noise bubbling up as her eyes land on the door to Arthur’s room, or rather the blood smeared around the handle, as though someone had struggled to open it. John curses, moving before she can, although she’s on his heels as he reaches the door, swallowing and holding his gun at the ready as he pushes it open.

There’s a breath of silence, broken simultaneously by John letting out a vicious curse that she’s not heard from him before, and Jack calling for them, no doubt worried about having woken to find them both gone. “Keep the boy out of here,” John snapped at her, hearing Jack and she opens her mouth to argue, to demand to know what he is going on, but the words dry up as she realises that the colour has drained from his face and there is fear in his eyes. “…And fetch Hosea, tell him…tell him Arthur’s hurt bad.” Abigail can’t miss the hesitation, the uncertainty and the words that he hasn’t said _hurt bad…or worse,_ and she nods, already retreating.

“Jack back inside and stay there,” she orders, falling too easily into the stern tone that he knows not to argue with. Hating the fear in his eyes, realising she’s had far too many opportunities to use that voice lately, but not having time to dwell on it. She doesn’t wait to check that he’s obeyed, already hurrying for the stairs, and her heart leaps into her throat as she founds the trail of blood leads downwards, her pace increasing as she follows it down the stairs.

_Oh, Arthur…_

**

Arthur isn’t dead.

John had to admit that he’d thought the worst when he’d first burst into the room and the seen the state of it. The blood on the walls and door, nothing compared to the mess in Arthur’s room. He doesn’t need to be as skilled at tracking as Charles to see that Arthur had fallen at least once while trying to reach the bed. The same bed that he’s half-slumped against. The covers and mattress now an awful coppery brown beneath and around him, blood pooled beneath the lower half of his body sprawled on the ground. _Not even Arthur could survive that,_ and even as he’d sent Abigail for help, he’d thought that it was too little too late. That he was calling Hosea up just to mourn the man the old con-artist considers a son, that John considered a brother for all that they wanted to throttle one another a lot of time. Had thought that he was approaching a dead man as he forced himself into the room, closing the door behind him in case Jack got curious and sheathing his weapon.

“Arthur…?” His voice barely above a whisper sounded far too loud in the silence, and there was no reply, not that he’d really been expecting one. _Arthur…_ They couldn’t afford to lose the other man, not with everything that had happened and was still happening, but the same could have been said of Davey and Mac… Jenny…Sean, so why did this loss cut so much deeper. An ache that stole his breath and filled his ears with white noise as he all but crept forwards, as though that could deny the inevitable. “Arth…”

Movement.

For a moment, John was convinced that he’d imagined it, that in his denial he was trying to see something that wasn’t there. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’d done it more than once up in the mountains when he’d been waiting to die in the snow, had half-thought that Arthur and Javier appearing above him was little more than an illusion until the former had insulted him in a way that only the real Arthur could imagine. But no, even when he blinked, held his eyes shut for a moment and looked again, the movement was still there. The ragged, too unsteady rise and fall of Arthur’s shoulders as he fought to breathe in the awkward position, he was in.

Breathing…

…Alive.

“Shit.” Cursing was easier than giving voice to the relief that it wasn’t too late, the fear that it could still be, as he hurried forward. “Arthur? Hey, Arthur, can you hear me?” He knew that it was probably better for him to be out for this, not wanting to imagine what wounds the other man had, but the stillness was wrong. Arthur was always moving, always busy. He’d been like that as long as John could remember, and at some point, that had come to mean that everything was fine, only now it wasn’t.

He was cautious as he gripped the other man, worried about hurting him further, even as there was no response to his frantic voice. Arthur too far gone, and his fingers trembled even as he worked on rolling Arthur over, trying not to focus on how Arthur’s arm fell limply to the side, hand bloody as though he had been pressing down on… a stream of curses that would have had Arthur threatening to soap him when they were younger, even if he’d learned most of them from the older man bubbled up because for a moment all he could see was red. Arthur’s clothes were heavy with it, unsalvageable, he thought. There was more on his face, his chin and beard stained with it, a deep gash running down the right side of his face scabbed with it, and more matted in his hair, and John found himself having to look at Arthur’s chest again. Needing to see the rise and fall, the confirmation of life, although, for the life of him, he couldn’t see how.

He wasn’t a praying man by any means, none of them was really – not even Swanson these days. He’d probably prayed for the first time in years when Jack had been taken, and again later in thanks when the boy had been sat in front of him on Old Boy and heading home. Now, he was torn between praying for Arthur to hold on, and giving thanks that he’d held on this long…and why hadn’t the damn fool told someone he was hurt when he rode in? Why hadn’t anyone noticed?

“You don’t get to die like this,” he settled for informing the unconscious man, voice a low growl, although he was gentle as he could be as he eased Arthur up onto the bed properly just as he heard the clattering of feet on the stairs. It wasn’t ideal, the covers stiff with blood, but it was better than the floor. “You hear me?” He muttered just as the door burst open behind him.

“Arthur?!” Hosea was beside him, frantic and looking as though he had aged in minutes, colour draining from his face as John shifted to let him get a good look at Arthur. “Is he…?”

“Still alive, somehow…” John muttered.

“Out of the way!” Mrs Grimshaw was there with Swanson on her heels, and John found himself being pushed out of the way. It didn’t stop him from seeing the way she paled and frowned – always a bad sign, because she was an expert at keeping her expression clear of emotions, a foundation of calmness when the rest of them were clamouring with the latest disaster. It was further confirmation that this was bad, that Arthur could…

“John?” He’d reached the door and jolted when Abigail touched his arm.

“He’s alive,” he muttered, knowing what she was asking when she looked towards the bed that was no blocked from sight in a frenzy of activity, not entirely sure which of them he was trying to reassure.

_He’s alive for now._

**

There was no way the news of Arthur’s condition could stay quiet for long, especially with the noise that Hosea and the others were making. Abigail had gone to take Jack outside to play with Cain in an attempt to distract both of them from what was happening. But John had seen the boy on the way out, seen the fear and the way his gaze had sought out every trace of blood that Arthur had left on the walls.

Dutch had cursed long and loud, before storming off, and John could hear him now pacing back and forth in his bedroom, and he wondered if it was out of concern for Arthur, or concern for his grand plans, trying to tell himself not to be so sceptical and failing. He could hear Molly trying to talk to him, and scowled, knowing that there would have been a time that he would have been up there trying to do the same.

Instead, he was downstairs in the entrance hall, having found it unbearable standing in the hallway upstairs trying to glean what was happening from the hushed voices, curses, and at one-point pained groan that had come from Arthur’s room. Mary-Beth and Karen were sat on the couch, pale and listening intently, waiting for the news and occasionally glancing at him, and the blood that he knew was now on his own clothes and hands. He should go and wash it off, but just the thought of stepping outside even just for the couple of minutes that it would take to reach the wash bucket at Pearson’s wagon was too much, as though if he moved even an inch everything would come crashing down.

Movement at the front door distracted him for a moment, tensing as his hand strayed to his gun, too on edge to take any chances and aware that this time Arthur wasn’t there to protect them. Charles stepped inside followed by Lenny who looked as shaken as he had the time he’d ridden into camp after Micah had got himself arrested back in Strawberry, with Kieran trailing uncertainly behind them, looking as skittish as a colt ready to bolt at the slightest sign. John’s lip curled, still uncomfortable with the O’Driscoll and he was about to tell him to scram, not willing to let him close with Arthur hurt when Charles spoke.

“Any news?”

“They’re still working on him.” _I hope_ John thought. Maybe it had been a mistake to come downstairs, because as bad as it had been to hear little more than muffled noises, it was even worse being down here and knowing nothing, and his fingers curled and clenched, stiff with the dried blood. Lenny followed the gesture and swallowed nervously before blurting.

“…I’m sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?” John demanded.

“I was on guard last night…” Lenny replied, whispering as though he was at confession and carefully, not looking at John as he spoke. Charles rested a hand on his shoulder in silent support, apparently already aware of this. John remembered his earlier thoughts and questions, expression darkening even as Charles sent him a warning look.

“What?”

“He came back late, stopped and spoke to me for a few minutes…” Lenny faltered, looking impossibly young for a moment before he shook his head. “He was tired, said he’d been hunting and run into some O’Driscolls.” John’s gaze snapped to Kieran at that, saw him wince and curl in on himself, but Lenny had continued before he could say anything. “He told me he’d lead them on a merry chase and that there was no chance of them following them back here, told him I’d keep watch out for them all the same.”

“And you didn’t notice the fact that he was bleeding out right in front of you?”

“I saw blood on his hands,” Lenny protested. “Even asked him about it, but he said that it was from skinning the deer he’d brought back, and I mean he was talking to me like everything was fine and dandy, and he was just a little tired…”

That sounded like Arthur, John had to admit. The older man had always had an aversion to being fussed over, and it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d hidden an injury from them. Despite their best attempts to break him of the habit, especially after he’d nearly got himself trampled to death when they were younger, toppling off his horse after a bullet wound he’d failed to mention had got the better of him. But even that paled in comparison to this, and John gritted his teeth. _Damn idiot._ If - and he hated how big an if that was right now – Arthur survived this he was going to tear him a new one for scaring them all like this.

“…I didn’t think...”

“He’s the idiot that didn’t say anything,” John cut off what he knew was going to be another apology. Not wanting to hear it, knowing that despite his irritation at Lenny for not noticing or not pushing, that it wasn’t really his fault. Arthur was the one that had hidden it. “Why are you here?” He asked, looking at Kieran now. It was easy to focus on him, especially now they had a name to put to the source of Arthur’s injuries, although he knew the other man hadn’t been involved. He barely left the camp as it was, and Arthur was one of the few that had seemed to more than tolerate Kieran’s presence in the camp, having caught them talking about horses on more than one occasion.

“I-I…” There was also the fact that he could barely speak without stammering, hardly a sign of a would-be assassin he thought with a sneer. “I was w-worried, there was b-b-blood all over his saddle, and then I heard what happened, and…Arthur, he’s been kind to me in his own way.”

John wanted to say something, to snap at him to get out or that it wasn’t his place to worry about any of them, least of all, Arthur. However, before he could give in to the temptation, Mary-Beth was asking Kieran to come and sit with her and Karen, chiding the other woman for grumbling and moving to make room for him, and he couldn’t bring himself to start an argument. Instead, he sank back against the wall, and stared at the ceiling, tracking the sound of Dutch’s footsteps. Opposite him, Charles and Lenny settled by the wall to wait for news, and he could see the others peering through the windows every few minutes as they tried and failed to go about their usual tasks, the entire camp seeming to hold his breath.

_O’Driscolls…lead them on a merry chase…_

He couldn’t stop mulling over what Lenny had said, and what he’d seen, wishing that he knew precisely what injuries had been hidden under Arthur’s clothes, and dreading the answer at the same time. Had Arthur been injured while riding all over the place? Had he made them worse in an attempt to keep the camp safe? As though it really mattered anymore, as it was only a matter of time before someone tracked them here… would the others think it worth it if Arthur died just to buy them an extra few days? Would Dutch? He didn’t know anymore. Didn’t know what had possessed Arthur to hide injuries that were this serious from them, because surely, he realised that losing him was far worse than having him here but badly injured? _Would he though…?_ Setbacks and mistakes were greeted with brimstone these days, and even the two of them, the ‘favoured sons’ weren’t exempt, and his stomach twisted unpleasantly, as he had a feeling that he knew the answer to that question.

A door opened upstairs, and it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room as they all shared fleeting glances, no one able to hold each other’s gaze. Another door opened and closed, and they could make out the muffled sound of voices – Dutch’s and Hosea’s – the latter’s rising for a moment, although they still couldn’t quite make out the words, although just the pitch had John tensing, his stomach tying itself in knots at this point. The door opened again, and there were heavy footsteps, and John knew that he wasn’t the only one to track their progress across the hallway floor, and down the stairs, picking up the pace as they did so as though aware that they were waiting.

Seconds later Hosea stepped into the room, and he looked as though he had just been through a battle, his shirt stained with blood, medicine and things that John decided he didn’t want to know about. If he’d looked like he’d aged years in minutes earlier, now it looked as though he had gained at least a decade in the last however long it had been. His expressive face was blank in a way that John hadn’t seen since he’d lost Bessie, and the knot in John’s stomach tightened and turned cold and heavy as he forced himself to speak up.

“Hosea is he…?”


End file.
